


Trick or Treat

by mandilorian



Series: Pulling a fast one [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Blushing as a personality trait, Flirty Courfeyrac, Genderfluid Character, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Gratuitous Flower References, Jehan is very confused, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, No angst in this AU, Other, honestly I would die for Jehan, mentioned Enjolras/Grantaire - Freeform, teacher jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandilorian/pseuds/mandilorian
Summary: Jehan Prouvaire couldn’t ask for a better job. These days, he is financially independent and content; he doesn't need to speak to his father ever again if he doesn't want to. He has a lodging in the same building as his employment, and he gets to spend his days doing what he loves: read, write and take care of children. Jehan has found himself a tightly knitted community, a few people who love and support him unconditionally. As he looks at his students, he couldn’t be happier or feel more at peace.Except for one minor inconvenience.His employer, Mr. Courfeyrac, would not stop showing up and turning his orderly world upside down.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire
Series: Pulling a fast one [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013178
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Trick or Treat

**Author's Note:**

> \- I promised someone a few months ago that Prouvairac was coming...and here we are! (I hope you are still there, my prompter?) This story is pretty much self-contained, but I still think it'd be more fun if you start this series from the [begining](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074956), but I wrote them, so.  
> \- My eternal gratitude and a part of my soul belong to [CX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cx_shhhh/profile) and her friend for being awesome sensitivity readers/beta/humans.

August 1872  
Charing Cross, London

Jehan Prouvaire couldn’t ask for a better day. It was overcast with a steady stream of rain. The pavement glistened like silver, and all his flowers were enjoying the extra nourishment. The rain covered all the endless hustle and bustle of London, and he was able to pretend he was alone in the world, writing an ode to music and lores.

These days, Jehan was financially independent and content; he didn’t need to speak to his father ever again if he didn’t want to. He now had a lodging in the same building as his employment, and he was able to do what he loved: read, write and take care of children. He had found himself a tightly knitted community, a few people who loved and supported him unconditionally. As he looked at his students, he couldn’t be happier or feel more at peace. 

Except for one minor inconvenience. 

His employer would not stop showing up to his schoolroom and plunging the whole lot of unruly children into unmitigated chaos. 

Case in point, Mr. Courfeyrac, Earl of Weybridge, was now opening a huge hamper basket he had inexplicably brought in today. This, of course, resulted in the utmost delight of the children. Ten pairs of eyes stared unblinking at the contents. Jehan wished the children would look half as interested when he tried to get them to trace letters. It was even more insulting when Courfeyrac just showed up unannounced and turned his carefully planned lessons of the day upside down.

“Mr. Prouvaire, please join us. The children can’t have fun without you scolding them for having fun,” Courfeyrac chirped, unaware of Jehan’s urge to throttle him. 

It was not that Jehan didn’t understand the desire to spoil the children rotten. His students, all under ten years old, had known more than their fair share of misery. Things grown men were not equipped to deal with were thrown at them for most of their lives. Jehan would never be able to express how grateful he was that the earl and his friends decided to start a string of schoolhouses and orphanages to give these children a fighting chance in the world where luck was stacked against them from birth. That said, for them to have a future, the children would need structure and skills.

And Courfeyrac was currently a hindrance to both. 

Oh well, it was not like affection could ever be in oversupply anyway.

Jehan plastered his biggest, most cordial smile on his face and walked over to the back of the class, where everyone was already gathering around Courfeyrac’s infernal basket.

“What have we got here?” Jehan asked, ruffling Gavroche’s hair as he peered into its contents. A bag of flour, sugar, eggs, and a few jars of jam sat innocently inside.

“We will learn how to bake today!” Courfeyrac announced proudly. “I’ve already spoken to the cook, and he will let us have the kitchen this afternoon. Don’t worry though, I am quite fond of baking and I have only set my kitchen on fire twice. They are all perfectly safe with me,” he said, directing the last part at Jehan. 

The children turned to him with pleading eyes. They were supposed to be learning basic arithmetic today, but sweets were expensive, and despite the cook, Mr. Feuilly’s best efforts, the children couldn’t have as much confectionery as they would want. Jehan didn’t have the heart to turn down a chance for free puddings. Besides, cooking was a skill they could use in the future, right?

“Do I even have a choice? We can bake today, but everyone here owes me an hour doing sums. And I want that debt paid by the end of this week. Do we have an agreement?”

The children nodded eagerly, but Jehan had no illusion of that promise getting fulfilled without a fight and a copious amount of tears, probably. He shook his head and followed them to the kitchen.

Courfeyrac materialised right by his side. “Mr. Prouvaire, I hope you don’t mind me turning up today. My meeting was cancelled at the very last minute, and I couldn’t resist stopping by today,” he said.

Was it just the dim light in the hallway, or was Courfeyrac looking somewhat remorseful for once? 

“Of course not. The children adore you. But how do you explain the other countless occasions where you also appeared unprompted?”

Courfeyrac laughed, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me. How could someone so lovely be so cruel? And here I thought you spent every day without me here watching the door for the off chance that I would show up and bring you posies.”

And that was another thing. Jehan had been raised amongst books and trees. His father didn’t care for a quiet, contemplative son that refused to go hunting or even pick up a gun. After every type of threat and bribe was attempted, his father wrote him off as a lost cause, and Jehan got to spend as much time as he wanted reading poetry with his mother and learning about flowers with the groundskeepers. That was to say, Jehan had barely any friends his age growing up. Now, at six and twenty, he couldn’t tell if Courfeyrac was teasing him or courting him with these frequent appearances and his easy compliments.

He blushed furiously. Shame no book he had read ever came with instructions on how to extinguish one’s blushes. 

“I do not!” Jehan tried to sound firm anyway.

“You hurt me again, headmaster. No matter, I am nothing if not forgiving, so here you go.” With that remark, Courfeyrac produced a bouquet of baby’s breath seemingly out of nowhere. 

Jehan startled into a laugh. So far, Courfeyrac had brought roses (too flashy), daffodils (too stuffy), carnations (too melancholy, but he secretly loved it). He doubted Courfeyrac knew any of the associated meaning, but he liked flowers, so he couldn’t exactly pretend to be displeased.

“Thank you. These signify a sincere devotion...I guess I’ll grant you the benefit of the doubt and say your intentions are pure then?” Jehan ventured.

“Well, I wouldn’t say _pure_ exactly,” Courfeyrac said with a wink, and Jehan fought the urge to roll his eyes. The man was utterly unrepentant.

They made it to the kitchen, and since the whole idea was Courfeyrac’s, Jehan parked himself on a chair in a corner and took his notebook out to get some writing done. He had pen and ink sets strewn all over the place because one can never know when inspiration would strike. The kitchen was old, but it was bright and spotless. Copper pots and pans gleamed from the hooks and the ancient oak table was polished until it looked brand new. Feuilly, was organised to a fault and he was as devoted to his work and the children as Jehan was. Needless to say, the children worshipped the man. Jehan made a mental note to make sure everything was put back to its place after the baking was done. He looked up after he heard an uproar and watched the scene in front of him.

Courfeyrac made the students sit down on a bench while he explained the instructions. Amazingly, the table also contains a chalkboard. 

“We will have to measure the ingredients before we start. I have a recipe just for one cake, but there are so many of you, so we are going to make two. I need three eggs for one cake, so how many would I need for two cakes?”

The students started counting and Courfeyrac grinned broadly at Jehan. “You can use your fingers to count too, that should help,” he said, holding up his right hand for demonstration. “Three eggs for one cake.” He held another three fingers up with his left. “Another three for the next. How many fingers am I holding up?”

The children all shouted their answers enthusiastically, and Jehan watched, transfixed. 

“Six, very good. Now, we need two cupfuls of flour and…” Courfeyrac continued while trying to instruct the class to divide the tasks between them with minimum kitchen disaster. Jehan eventually got forced into stepping in because Courfeyrac was gradually but surely losing control over every aspect of the situation once the butter and sugar came out of the bags. Gavroche was now holding a bowl of cream hostage and dipping his finger into it repeatedly.

“Gavroche, if we don’t have enough cream, there won’t be any cake. Would you be alright if your friends have to settle for gruel while you get all the cream?” Jehan coaxed.

“Guess not,” Gavroche replied somewhat forlornly, handing back the bowl.

“Well done,” Courfeyrac whispered into Jehan’s ear before taking the bowl from him and pouring its contents into a big bowl of flour and sugar, and Jehan had to fight his shivers away. Courfeyrac whisked the mixture together with the air of someone who had done it a thousand times, and the children watched him with rapt attention. 

“There,” he said, showing them what cake batter should look like and fending off the grubby fingers that were trying to reach the bowl. Jehan laughed and helped guide the bowl to the safety of a cake tin above the stove. 

Courfeyrac put two tins in and wiped his hands on his apron dramatically. “And now we wait.”

The children objected loudly so Jehan swooped in. “We can use the time to clean Mr. Feuilly’s kitchen, right?”

The children, plus Courfeyrac, all protested even louder at that.

***

The new pelisse and a matching muslin gown arrived late yesterday, and Jehan could barely wait to try them on. There was no school today, and as much as she loved the children, she appreciated an opportunity for some peace and contemplation. With only one day off work per week, Jehan had to use those days strategically. She was meeting a friend for tea later this afternoon.

Gender had always been a strange concept for her. Her mother loathed London society and spent as much time as she could at her husband’s estate in the wilderness in Gloucestershire. When the head of the house was away in London for parliamentary sessions, Jehan was allowed to do whatever she wanted. As a child, she fashioned a dress from potato sacks, learned to trim her own skirt with chantilly laces, and knew how to tie a cravat perfectly. She would pick her outfits each day based on her mood, and whether they were skirts or breeches, no one on the estate could care less.

Of course, she knew that her upbringing wasn’t conventional. She would still need to wear a coat and put on a cravat if she wanted to have an ounce of independence, regardless of how she felt each day. There were a few days in the past week that she would rather have taught in a gown instead of a breeches, but had done so anyway. One day in the near future, though, she would have the children know that everyone on earth was important and equal, regardless of their gender. Hopefully, she would be wearing whatever she wished one of these days too. For now though, the one day off meant all the more for her since it was the only day a week where she could truly do whatever she wanted. And today felt like a new pelisse day (last week it was a vintage tailcoat). 

The custom-made pelisse was exquisite. Jehan found the purple and orange pattern wonderfully refreshing. The seller nearly wept with gratitude when she bought it since no one had even touched the thing since the store ordered it eight months ago. Jehan bought it without a moment’s thought. She liked bright, loud things, and it was her own money to spend as she pleased. 

Jehan sat down in front of her looking glass and put her hair up on a quick but neat twist, using a few strands of braids. Her flaming red locks clashed wonderfully with the orange gown. Unbraided, her hair came down to her waist, even though she knew it was more fashionable for both men and women to wear it shorter lately. She dapped the faintest amount of rouge on her cheeks and lips and lightly powdered her nose. She loved her freckles far too much to do anything to conceal them. Finally, she put on her gloves and a matching bonnet and headed out for her tea with Fantine, but not before stopping to prune her roses and making up a bundle of sage and lavender for her friend and mentor.

Fortnum and Mason’s tea room was all the rage lately. Nearly every table was occupied by ladies of all ages enjoying their treats. Fantine waved at her from a corner, and Jehan rushed over to give her a firm hug.

“My dear, you look radiant! The children are behaving this week then?” Fantine cooed, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“They are never as good as your girls,” Jehan replied wistfully.

Nearly four months ago when Enjolras and Courfeyrac came to the agency looking for tutors and governesses for their orphanages, Jehan and Fantine quickly applied for the posts. Jehan couldn’t stand another spoiled child who was born with a title, and Fantine had long dreamt of taking care of as many orphans as she could. It was quickly decided that they would start with one orphanage for boys and another for girls. Fantine and Jehan grew closer in the weeks and months that they had spent together, trying to find the best way to take care of world-wary children who didn’t have many reasons to trust adults. 

Fantine was a saviour Jehan never thought she’d needed. At the agency, they had been colleagues, cordial acquaintances who occasionally traded exasperating stories about insufferable parents and children, but here, after three months of shared experiences and tears, they were friends, family.

Fantine was an endless well of grace and compassion. Jehan found out that Fantine had been forced to put her daughter into the questionable London foster care system when she was little more than a child herself. 

Fantine laughed while pouring black tea into each of their ceramic cups. “My girls are truly the sweetest, but a few little birds told me you have been getting some help wrangling the boys lately? A certain gentleman with a penchant for hothouse blooms and cakes?”

Jehan gaped and felt her face heat. Tripping over her words, she sputtered, “Wh-who told you that? It has to be Gavroche, isn’t it? Wait, how did Gav get to you so fast? Is it Feuilly?--I mean, I don’t know what they told you, but he is our employer, and we have to be cordial to him, lest he decides to stop paying for the school and the orphanage,” Jehan said, understanding that she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Fantine, the saint that she was, just laughed and squeezed her hand.

“Mr. Courfeyrac and his friends don’t strike me as easily offended,” she said with a wicked smile.

Let it be known that nice people were not above making ruthless observations. Jehan decided to demote Fantine’s ranking from a saint to an angel. 

She huffed, “I do not know what you are trying to imply. I am cordial to everyone by nature.”

Fantine hummed. “You know what, dear, you really are, but I don’t see you blush when we talk about Mr. Feuilly’s love of your poetry or his help with the children though?”

“Mr. Feuilly is genuine by nature. He has no deceptive bone in his body! I could trust him as much as I could trust a vicar,” Jehan said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Mr. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, was unknowable. He was such a cheery and famous rake that I couldn’t put my finger on his motivation. What would an earl want with a tutor and a house full of orphans? He was there more than most parents I have seen.” 

Fantine, however, was unmoved. “You are overthinking it, Jehan. Did it not cross your mind that he merely enjoys your company?”

Jehan swallowed a piece of scone instead of replying.

***

“The street is quite busy today,” Jehan said, slightly frustrated after the third hackney they hailed was occupied.

Her regular tea appointment with Fantine wasn’t a simple social call. They had been going to every registry in London, looking for any record of Fantine’s daughter. It had been twenty-four years since Fantine had to give her up and ten since she started searching for the girl.

Euphrasie Tholomyès.

Record-keeping for mother-surrendered orphans was spotty at best. The odds of finding a girl whose last name had possibly changed by now were even slimmer. The orphanage Euphrasie was sent to had burned down in a suspicious fire, but none of the residents was killed, supposedly. After that, the Thénardiers, who ran the orphanage at the time, seemingly vanished into thin air with all the children in their care. Jehan and Fantine had taken to visiting every registry office in London to look for a stray record from 1852 onward. They were trying their luck at Camden Town magistrate's office today. 

“Perhaps we ought to walk a little; the park would have a lot of hackney drivers resting, I’d wager,” Fantine said. They began heading down to the nearby Green Park when a flashy carriage screeched to a halt in front of them. And out came Courfeyrac, the devil himself.

“Ms. Fantine,” he said with a bow. “May I offer you and your companion the services of my coach? I saw you try to hail a hackney, so I had my driver turn around.”

Jehan looked at the ground. Not a lot of people knew her as a woman, and when the subject arose, she and Fantine always tread very carefully.

“Thank you, Mr. Courfeyrac, but it is a rather lovely day, Lady Jane and I shall be alright making our way to the park.” 

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened, and Jehan had a worrying moment that he had recognised her, but Courfeyrac only offered another bow. “Lady Jane, pleased to make your acquaintance.” She offered him her gloved hand, but instead of kissing the air above it, Courfeyrac placed a gentle kiss right on top of her hand.

Her breath hitched, and another blush stubbornly crept up on her neck.

Courfeyrac smiled like he had just won himself another lucrative Yorkshire mill. “May I offer to accompany you to the park anyway? I didn’t realize how lovely today was to be until now.”

Jehan was going to strangle the man one of these days.

***

Courfeyrac stopped to pick some honeysuckles and handed them to her as they walked. “It matches your hair,” he said.

Jehan couldn’t do anything but tuck it in one of her braids. It smelled heavenly, and Courfeyrac’s smile as she did so was so soft and fond. Suffice to say Jehan was thoroughly confused. 

“Do you ladies have any prior engagement this evening? My friend, Baron Pontmercy, and his fiancée are hosting a small dinner party, just our closest circle. The future Baroness told me before that she would love to get involved with the orphanage, and Mr. Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire are visiting us from up north this week. I am certain they would all love to hear about the children,” Courfeyrac asked.

“I would love to,” Fantine said. “But as my employer, you must know that I should be back with the girls by nightfall.”

Courfeyrac looked absolutely scandalised. “Surely we give you a free day or two a week?”

Fantine laughed. “Yes, of course, you do. I just prefer to be there at night since some of the girls still have occasional nightmares, and staying in is more for my peace of mind than theirs, really.”

Courfeyrac gave her a long look and shook his head, but his bright smile was back as if it had never gone away. “We are so fortunate to have found you, Ms. Fantine.”

They made it to the park, and Fantine told Courfeyrac of their plan to go to the registry. Jehan relaxed more and more in their presence. She trusted Fantine’s judgement more than anyone, and if Fantine was willing to let Courfeyrac in on such a personal matter, Jehan could perhaps trust him as well.

Courfeyrac, true to form, eagerly volunteered his afternoon at the archive. He reasoned that three pairs of eyes must be better than two.

They ended up taking his coach after all. 

Fantine insisted on sitting by herself because of her age and pretended not to notice Courfeyrac edging closer and closer to Jehan. Close enough for her to smell his expensive cologne.

Jehan was surrounded by traitors.

***

He didn’t know what to expect on Monday, but it certainly wasn’t Courfeyrac barging in with another bouquet of flowers.

Jehan couldn’t tell how he felt about that. 

He understood enough that the earl was mostly harmless, and perhaps Jehan did enjoy his company quite a lot. On the other hand, yesterday was a testament to how much of a Casanova Courfeyrac was. He was kind and familiar with everyone, while Jehan had once gone through a whole dinner without speaking a word because he didn’t know anybody there beside his mother.

His resolution was to maintain a greater distance, or so Jehan told himself. He didn’t know how many people would understand his identity, and he had no patience for those who did not, especially since one of those people could send him to the gallows just for being who he was. Besides, Jehan enjoyed solitude by nature. He could spend days in the woods gathering flowers and mapping the stars. He wrote alone by a window under the moonlight. And even with the children he cherished, he needed a few hours each day to recuperate. 

He didn’t know why he had suddenly noticed how quiet their little building was when Courfeyrac wasn’t around to make all the ruckus.

“Mr. Prouvaire, are you still with us?” He was rudely yanked back to reality with eleven confused faces. “Did Pan take you somewhere?” Courfeyrac continued, evidently proud of himself for remembering one of Jehan’s favourite god.

“Yes, of course, sorry. We are looking at Dante today. Now, can anyone tell me which city he is from?”

Courfeyrac’s hand was one of the three that shot up.

Jehan couldn't help but laugh.

This might be a problem.

***

It became a routine; Jehan could basically set the clock by the time Courfeyrac would show up each Monday and Thursday morning. He would stay for nearly a whole day with occasional impromptu field trips or baking lessons.

So far, the children had been taken to the Crystal Palace , the Tower of London, and Hyde Park. They had perfected a sponge cake and shortbread biscuit.

So it was just odd that Courfeyrac didn’t bother showing up today.

Jehan wasn’t worried, exactly, but he still kept a steady watch on the door. If the children’s snickers were anything to go by, he wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought he was.

It was noon, so Jehan gave up and let Feuilly take the children to the kitchen for lunch (chicken pie), and he sat back at his desk, tracing a poem about Apollo and Hyacinth. 

“Did you miss me?” a voice from the doorway startled him.

Jehan looked up, pleased. “The children missed you terribly.”

Courfeyrac’s face fell. “Just the children, of course. Anyhow, I was waiting for a delivery, so I couldn’t leave the house before.” He walked over and put a velvet wrapped box on Jehan’s desk. “Please open it?”

Jehan carefully untied the ribbon, inside, it was a portable writing set, complete with small pen and ink, engraved with his preferred name of Jehan.

Instead of feeling pleased, Jehan felt hot tears welling up in his eyes. “What is this, Mr. Courfeyrac? This must have cost you an arm and a leg. I cannot accept this,” he said, pushing the box back to Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac stuttered for the first time since the day they met, over six months ago now. “I--I am very sorry. Did I offend you? I did not mean any harm. I just saw your stationery everywhere, and I thought you might like one for when you are out, in the park or at the museum. You were asking the park warden for some ink just last week because you wanted to write a poem in the orangery. I will take it back, of course.”

Jehan only felt worse. It was not Courfeyrac’s fault for being endlessly kind. It was all on Jehan for thinking those gestures meant more than a friendly generosity. He sighed and spoke up with his eyes still on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Courfeyrac. That was rude of me, but I truly cannot accept a gift of such great value. I would only misinterpret it,” he said the last part quietly, mostly to himself.

Courfeyrac moved right in front of him and gently tipped Jehan’s chin up with his fingers.

“Misinterpret how? Jehan, I don’t think I could be any more obvious if I shouted about how completely enthralled I am from a rooftop.”

Jehan’s head snapped up. 

“No, you couldn’t be! Please don’t be cruel. You have been nothing but gracious, so don’t mock me now.” Jehan was trembling again. He made to leave the room, but Courfeyrac held his elbow and halted him.

“Please, Jehan, what is it about me that makes my affection so repulsive that you had to accuse me of lying? Enlighten me on this, and I will never step foot in this room ever again,’ Courfeyrac said, voice shaking and face red with frustration.

“Because you are like that with everyone!” Jehan finally snapped. Today was to be a rare day of raised voices from them both, it seemed.

“Whatever made you think that? I’ve hardly thought of anyone since I met you. I’ve been here every single week without fail, and you have rarely been out except for that Saturday last month with Fantine!”

“What?”

“We went to Green Park? And the Camden registry? How did you forget?”

It was Jehan’s turn to be confused. 

“You knew that was me?”

Courfeyrac looked absolutely bewildered.

“Was I not supposed to? Yours was a face dearer to me than any other. Did I do something wrong again?” he said, voice soft with indescribable tenderness. 

Jehan shook his head. “A—and you do not mind?”

Courfeyrac laughed out loud at that. “Why would I mind? I would take any scrap of your attention. It only made me happier to learn new things about you. Jehan, you have a vest shaped like a crystal skull! You pressed all the flowers I gave you because you couldn’t bear to throw them away. I am endlessly fascinated by you, and I can’t believe you kept letting me come here day after day and so I thought you might feel some fondness for me. I am sorry again if I crossed a line. Tell me what to do, anything you want, and I will do it.”

“Kiss me.”

“Pardon?”

“You told me you would do anything I want, and I want you to kiss me.”

Courfeyrac lit up like Jehan was a miracle. He pulled Jehan closer by the waist and looked into his eyes. They were of nearly the same height, but Jehan felt his warmth presence like the sun.

He closed his eyes and Courfeyrac pressed their lips together gently, almost chastely. His soft lips traced every tender line on Jehan’s face, and Jehan could probably spend an eternity being held and treasured like this.

Except for the bell.

Curse the bell.

“Oh God, the children are due back any minute now,” he said, reluctantly pulling out of Courfeyrac’s arms.

“Good. They will owe me so many biscuits after today,” Courfeyrac said, completely back to himself. He looked at Jehan’s puzzled face and replied, “They were taking bets on when I would win you over, and it’s before Christmas, so I’ve won by a huge margin.”

Jehan would lovingly try to stab him later.

**Author's Note:**

> -With regard to the pronouns, I spent a long time thinking and reading up on it, but ultimately, I went with how I think Jehan would feel on any given day. As this [this article](https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/essays/nonbinary-19th-century) about the subject says, “the pronoun “they” makes visible an identity that we now recognize as multivalent, variable, and different for each individual: people can be “they” in as many ways as they can be “she” or “he.” It is tempting to take the new language of trans that has emerged in recent years and apply it backwards: to refer to [people in the past] as “they.” Perhaps that would have pleased them. But the new vocabulary is ours, not theirs, marking the difference between 1884 and 2019. In the 1880s, there was no pronoun to do this work of self-declaration. Instead, these individuals had to work to carve out a space for themselves in every story they told. As writers they were lucky, with the will and the imagination to force their way into existence through linguistic manipulations and literary ingenuity,” and I would like to honor that.  
> -This is, of course, not just a historical preference as well. Some people still prefer many pronouns, Jonathan Van Ness from Queer Eye, for example, stated on [record](https://www.cosmopolitan.com/uk/reports/a30053865/jonathan-van-ness-pronouns) that he felt alright with he/she/them most of the time.  
> -Records of genderfluid and nonbinary people in the 19th century were...not well kept. I looked at the history of genderfluid people, but I don’t want to use tragic stories, as is often the case for those that appeared on-court/prison documents. I found this play about a genderfluid performer, [Stella ](https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20160608-the-cross-dressing-gents-of-victorian-england), who was “nice middle-class man from Maida Vale, a “flaming queen”, an out gay man strutting the streets of the West End in tight trousers and low cut shirts, and Lady Stella Pelham Clinton, who lived as the wife of a Tory MP.” Stella was a rare happy case on record, a successful performer, who lived an unapologetic life.  
> -On a lighter note, Fortnum & Mason is one of the oldest luxury grocery stores in England, established in 1707 by a former footman of Queen Anne!  
> -Afternoon tea got huge in England around 1840 because rich people started eating dinner very fashionably late (8-9 p.m.) and rich people got snacky in the afternoon, so, yay food.  
> 


End file.
